Miles to Go Before I Sleep
by Gypsie Rose
Summary: On the way to Helm's Deep, a half-delirious Aragorn remembers a night with Legolas after Gandalf's fall. Solo piece by Gypsie, A/L Slash, Movieverse.
1. Prologue

A/N: This is a story written solely by Gypsie, as a challenge to herself. She is not generally a slash fan, mostly because she finds that the actions of the characters in slash are often improbable. She has decided to try to write a slash piece that is consistant in character, and would like to hear from the readers how close she's come. Thanks.  
  
MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP  
  
by "Gypsie" of Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
Prologue  
  
Men, no matter how long-lived they may be, are still, ultimately mortal. Our lives, when compared to those of the elves, are short--some might say blessedly so. When we err, we do not have to live with the consequences of what we have done for the span of millennia. Of course, we also do not have millennia in which to forgive wrongs done to us.  
  
These are the thoughts that assail me as I wander the plains of Rohan at the whim of my horse, Brego. I have not the strength to guide him. The wound at my shoulder has begun to fester; I can feel the burning tendrils of infection worming their ways into my flesh. I cannot stop to remedy it now, though, for I have nothing with which to soothe the sore, nothing with which to bind the wound. And I have seen an army massing--Sauruman's army. I must try to give warning to the Rohirrim, if I can. And so, to forget the physical pain, I let my fevered mind drift to other pains that I cannot forget.  
  
Men--even Númenorean men such as I--are mortal. We grow old and die in what must seem, to an elf, to be but a short span of years. The reality of this, the irony of it, fell upon me as I coughed river water from my lungs, my eyes focused on a vision of Arwen's sweet face. To her father--and now, to herself--the span of my life must seem as brief and ephemeral as a single summer. To me, after leaving her at Rivendell, it has seemed impossibly long. But I draw some comfort in the fact that she will forget her pain, as the millennia draw on for her in the Undying Lands; her memory will fade and dull until she can recall in detail only the pleasantries we shared--never the pain. I clutch for her jewel at my chest before I recall that it, too, is lost to me--lost in the fight in which I nearly lost my life. Nearly...a part of me thinks I speak too soon, yet.  
  
It is all I can do to keep astride Brego, as we roam together across the plain. At times I feel him shift beneath me, as if he knows I am slipping, and he is struggling to keep me abreast. The loyalty of beasts at times surpasses those loyalties shown by people, be they Men, or Dwarves, or even Elves. Beasts are rarely treacherous; they do not seek to deceive others, either willingly or unwillingly. Beasts act on instinct alone, and though they are guided by their handlers, when pressed, they will follow the path that nature has taught them is the best. Many people ultimately behave this way as well, I suppose. The difference is that the beasts do not regret the results of their instinctive actions.  
  
I pull my thoughts away from Arwen, for that is a pain I can do nothing about now; she is lost to me, and that is a decision I do not regret, for it means she will live a long and happy life in the end. The wound at my shoulder throbs insistently, and I feel Brego shift. I pat his mane, mutter an acknowledgement that I am still with him, that I haven't succumbed yet to death. I try a different path of focus; I concentrate on those still living whom I may yet see again, if Brego can find our way before I fall to the fever. King Théoden, restored and willing once more to lead his people. And Éowyn, his niece, a strong and beautiful woman--a mortal woman--with the bearing of a queen. And the last vestiges of our Fellowship still with me: Gandalf, seeking help for the kingdom, and stalwart Gimli...and Legolas.  
  
Legolas. My mind settles at last on this new pain--not as insistent as the ache at my shoulder, nor, I suppose, the ache for Arwen in my heart. The lives of Men are brief, and thus we are used to seeing life end. For the Elves, it is not so. Poor Legolas has seen more death since he has joined our company than he had seen in the millennia he had lived before, and he has felt it more deeply than any of the rest of us can imagine. And then, to add to his confusion, to his hurt, I deceived him with a little comfort, only to snatch it away again when I realized my own truths. It is to this pain that my mind drifts, to the first night out of Moria, as we huddled, miserable and broken, on the forest's edge, not yet to Lothorien.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. The Darkest Evening

MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP  
  
by "Gypsie" of Gypsie Rose  
  
Chapter 1: The Darkest Evening  
  
My heart had been heavy when we, the Fellowship, broke out of the long dark of Moria and into the daylight. Of course, that weight was relative, for it had been heavy before we had even entered the Mines. I carried the load of my loss of Arwen there, and none knew of that choice save myself--and possibly Gandalf, as it was more than difficult to keep secrets from *him*. But after Moria, that secret of mine was certainly safe, and I had then added the heft of the wizard's apparent death to the burden in my heart.  
  
I had known for certain two things as the Fellowship spilled out along the rocky hillside: that the role of leader had now fallen to me, whether I wished for it or no, and that if we did not keep on the move, we would be lost--overcome by orcs, or by our own grief. And so I had called for the assistance of Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir to help to rouse the devastated Hobbits, who were rolling on the rocks and weeping at their loss. I had thought these three companions to be the strongest at the time, for to me the Hobbits seemed--not as children, exactly, but infused with an innocence that this quest was rapidly depleting. And so, I had barked orders and hoped that the hurried movement would bolster the courage of us all.  
  
Boromir had not seen it that way, however; he berated me for my cold-heartedness on the spot. He had not known that I felt this loss of Gandalf probably more dearly than any save perhaps for Frodo; none had known the wizard better than I, and none--again, save Frodo--would have to shoulder a burden as heavy as the burden of leadership with which I was now faced. However, I did not give Boromir that, but explained that we needed to take cover, that orcs would be coming, that we would be badly outmatched. And it had been in the middle of this argument, I recall now, that I had first realized Legolas might not have been as strong as I had first suspected.  
  
Legolas had stood, then, a bit behind Boromir, staring out across the base of the mountains, looking toward the edges of the forest in the distance. His brow had been knitted, but he had not been scanning for enemies beyond, for his look had been entirely different: he had looked afraid, for the first time since I had known him. It has only occurred to me recently, as I struggle to stay atop Brego, that an Elf is so very unused to death--especially a relatively young elf who has not lived long enough to have seen the slaughter of the last Great War. Then, all I had thought of was how strangely afraid he looked, and how very unlike him that was. When his gaze had connected once again with my own, however, Legolas appeared to regain his composure; we had been friends a long while, and he must have sensed I had needed his assistance. The expression of his fear had been but fleeting, and as he moved to aid the other Hobbits, I turned my attention back to Frodo.  
  
It had taken several minutes to rouse all the Fellowship and get us once more on our way, but I had managed it in spite of my misgivings. And, before night fell, I had also managed to lead them to the cover of the forests, very near to Lothlorien. It was here where we made our camp for the evening--here, where the Hobbits freely expressed the grief that I had rushed out of them in my hurry to bring us to safety. Boromir sulked sullenly at the camp's edge, while the bereaved Hobbits wept within its confines and Gimli tried to speak bravely of the wizard, to bolster the spirits of all. I felt at that moment that I could do nothing for any of them...and if I failed to govern such a small, though important, body of people, how was I ever to govern a nation of them? I had gone through two full pipes already in my worry, and rummaged then through my pack to find weed enough to fill a third.  
  
It was then that I felt a hand upon my shoulder; Legolas had come up silently behind me. "We should scout this place," he said quietly. "To be certain we will no be surprised in the night." I nodded my agreement, relieved at my friend's suggestion to draw me away from the group's misery for just a moment, so that I could think more clearly. I announced our plan to scout tothe others as if it had been my own idea, and when I received a nod from Gimli and a glower from Boromir, Legolas and I set out into the darkening woods.  
  
Men are impulsive creatures. We do not ruminate for any real length of time on most decisions we make; not nearly as long as the Elves think upon theirs. Our short lives waste our reason, for we do not use it well enough, or long enough, or often enough. If I had given any thought to the events of that day, and to Legolas' strange look of fear upon the hill, I would have expected what was to follow that evening. And then, perhaps, the ultimate outcome might have been...more pleasant. But I am only a Man, and as such, I was utterly unprepared.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story will probably not be updated for a week or so since Rose, my beta reader, will be on vacation. (Shameless plug) Meanwhile, why not check out our other stories? 


	3. Lovely, Dark and Deep

Chapter 2: Lovely, Dark, and Deep  
  
The camp and our companions had long ago been obscured by the thick forest and the growing gloom of evening, as Legolas and I continued to search the immediate area for signs of danger. I had suggested, as we stepped from camp, that we two split up; we are both well experienced with and at home in the forest, and it seemed to me the most logical manner in which to complete the task my Elf friend had suggested to me. Legolas declined, however, providing to my questioning glance the excuse that two would fare better than one should we be surprised. At the time, the excuse struck me as only strange, though in hindsight, as I ride here in the wilderness, I realize that I should have recognized the sign...the *intention* in what he was saying, and what his meaning was behind his words. But again, I am but mortal--I have not the perceptions of an Elf.  
  
We were well away from everyone's sight, and more than likely from their hearing as well, when I mentioned that I felt the area was secure, and that we could return to camp. And when I turned to him then, I saw again on Legolas' face the look of fear that had so surprised me outside Moria. And it baffled me all the more then, as I'd just declared the camp safe--I secretly worried that I'd missed something.  
  
"Is there something you see, Legolas, that I do not?" I whispered, slipping into the Sindarin that was more natural to us both. "A danger I have missed?"  
  
How prophetic that statement was! I was blind to the danger that worried Legolas because a Man's heart is akin to his eyes when compared with the Elves; I could not guess at what Legolas must have thought was obvious, just as I could not see as far into the darkening woods as he.  
  
He placed a hand on my shoulder in reply, as if to tether me to him, so that I would not run. It was not Legolas' touch that unnerved me as he transfixed me there. The strange, earnest expression on his face gave me far more concern than any touch ever could.  
  
"Legolas?" I ventured again.  
  
"Aragorn--there is no immediate danger," he stammered at last, still keeping a tightening grip on my shoulder. His eyes, dark pools in the shadowy woods, scanned mine intensely.  
  
I have known Legolas a long time, and never before that moment had he caused me to grow impatient. Having known the ways of the elves since I was but a child, I knew that they were intuitive. Elrond, and later, Arwen, had taught me to listen and to wait--and I had thought myself an accomplished student. Still, I am a Man, and Legolas was frustrating me to no end.  
  
"Then, what troubles, you, my friend?" I asked at last, hoping to hurry the moment along, to get us back to camp, where I felt I might be needed. In the back of my mind, the duties of leader loomed, large and inescapable.  
  
"Aragorn...I fear for you."  
  
My first inclination at that moment was to laugh at my friend's gift for irony. I feared for myself as well, with Gandalf dead and the hobbits distraught and Boromir beginning to show stronger signs of the lust for the Ring that we all felt, to some varying degrees, in our hearts. I feared that I was not strong enough to lead--the Fellowship or Gondor, it mattered not which. And I feared that I would be facing all of these challenges alone, with a broken heart and a distracted mind that thought only of Arwen, forever lost to me.  
  
But I did not mention any of this to Legolas. I held his gaze as firmly as I could, and calmly replied, "I am in no danger, Legolas. No more than any of us are."  
  
His brow knitted, the creases of worry playing against the smoothness of his forehead. "And it is that which worries me, Aragorn. Gandalf did not believe he was in danger, and yet...."  
  
His eyes, so liquid and large, shone a pleading then that sent a shiver through me. I had known some Elves were prophetic, and I wondered if Legolas had that gift, if he knew my fears, if he saw that the Quest would fail. I am sure I showed some worry then, for he continued:  
  
"Aragorn, it troubles me that...that you may die."  
  
"I *will* die, Legolas," I choked. No Man wishes to dwell on his own mortality, and I enjoy it even less than most, for it reminds me always of what I cannot be, what I cannot have...because I am mortal. That night, especially, with all my troubles weighing heavily upon me, I wished not to think on death. "I am mortal."  
  
He seemed at a loss for words, as if he needed very badly to share a confidence, but could not bring himself to do it. I put a hand on *his* shoulder then, connecting us further, trying to make him understand that he was my friend, and any secret he wished to unburden from himself upon me, I would gladly carry.  
  
"I must tell you, Aragorn...I could not bear to lose you."  
  
I could feel him trembling beneath my touch, and wondered at this surge of emotion. Legolas and I had been close for a long while, and never had he bared himself to me in this manner. I squinted in the shadowy light, trying to make out the expression on my friend's face. I thought--I still think I saw a wetness glistening upon his cheek.  
  
"I could not bear it!" he nearly shouted, and then embraced me strongly.  
  
A Man has little time allotted to him to sort things out--little time to make decisions, and even less to ensure that every decision he makes is the correct one. And when Legolas met my lips with his, I made a decision that I may regret for the rest of my days.  
  
Blessedly, I think, as my wound throbs and the sun beats hard and hot against my neck, that time may not be long at all.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back! Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing, especially Ara for sticking with it! 


	4. Some Mistake

Chapter 3: Some Mistake  
  
I should not have returned his kiss. This is the thought in the forefront of my mind, as I feel Brego shift again beneath me as we ride together across the wilds of Rohan. If I had had less pipeweed, if there had been fewer troubles pressing on my consciousness, if I had only been given time to think the situation through...but all of these are but conjecture.  
  
The actuality--the *fact*--of the matter was that when Legolas kissed me with a hungry need, so deep and strong, which I did not know the Elf was capable of expressing, I responded. I cannot say "in kind", for that would be a falsehood--I had only ever kissed one other with the degree of passion Legolas had shown me then. But I did not sputter and push him away, and I did not remain motionless with the shock of his expression of affection. I most assuredly returned the kiss.  
  
I know now that responding to Legolas' kiss was an error on my part. I *know* it, and not simply because Legolas was another male. What I wanted, what I needed, was to feel the comfort I felt in Arwen's arms, and to give the comfort I hoped I often gave her. In truth, I was not thinking much of Legolas at all, though in retrospect, allowing what followed was far crueler on my part than if I had scowled and pushed him aside in his time of need.  
  
He moved his mouth from my lips to my stubbled chin, and down my neck, and for my part, I did nothing to stop him. I could feel him at my waist, pushing up my traveler's jerkin, tugging at the drawstring on my leggings, and I knew, *I knew* where his actions were leading, but I did nothing, save to close my eyes.  
  
A Man cannot help but feel pleasure when pleasurable actions are performed upon him, regardless of who is committing such actions. I am a Man, and I cannot help the way my body chooses to feel--be it the pain of my shoulder, throbbing insistently in its need for treatment, or what I felt that evening in the woods, as Legolas pleasured me. I did not ask the Elf for that, but neither did I pull him from me. I think back upon that night now, as I ride, and despite the fever, it is still clear to me...as clear as it was then, anyhow.  
  
With my eyes closed, I had effectively blinded myself to the physical realities of what was occurring: I could not see the dark shadows of branches, or the moonlight that must have filtered through them onto the forest floor. I could not see Legolas, my friend, as he knelt before me. What I saw, in my mind, was Arwen. I saw a firelit chamber in Rivendell; I saw silken sheets turned back, their enticing smoothness beckoning. *Her* enticing smoothness, beckoning. I felt my breath come in shorter gasps as these memories collided with the very real heat in my groin.  
  
And then, I heard his voice, breaking my reverie. "Aragorn--please."  
  
His plea was insistent, needy, but I knew not what more he wanted of me, and I dared not open my eyes to face what I had begun with that kiss. I groped blindly forward, finding his head, and resting my hand there, on the smoothness of his hair. How like hers it was--soft and full.  
  
He did not push my hand away, but it slipped to his shoulders as he struggled with something: I remember hearing the rustling of the leaves on the forest floor, and thinking how like it was to the rustling of the draperies in Arwen's chamber, when the fall winds blew, gentle but chill, through them. And then, I felt him draw me down, felt him beneath me, the bared skin of his abdomen, his legs, against my hips, where he'd pulled apart my own clothing. I felt his hands on me, guiding me forward, allowing me entry, and almost I thought I was in her arms again, in the woods outside Rivendell, where none would see us consummate a love we could not bear to hold in any longer.  
  
Almost. I may be but a Man, but I consider myself perceptive nonetheless. Thinking back, I had willed myself to another place and another time, but there were some faults to that illusion in which I had cloaked my encounter with Legolas. The one that I remember most clearly now, as Brego shifts again and I try to sit up straighter, as if to prove that I can complete the journey, is the hard heat of Legolas, pressed against my belly, between us as I moved within him.   
  
It was as plain to me then as it is now, but still, it did not stop me from taking one Elf while my mind remained fixed on another.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED  
  
A/N Sorry for the delay, but this chapter was quite a challenge for me, and it's been a busy couple of weeks. 


	5. Promises to Keep

Chapter 4: Promises to Keep  
  
A Man's mortality imparts to him a sort of weakness, a driving need to proceed, to experience, to live in the moment, from moment to moment, as if he knows that there are too few moments in which to accomplish all the living he desires to do. A Man does not take the time to think through his actions before he rushes to conclude them, because he knows he does not have that time.  
  
Or, at least, this is the lie I tell myself as Brego continues to guide us through the wilds of Rohan, as the punishing wind whips against my sunburnt skin. The truth is far more bitter than the lie; it throbs and festers as much in my mind as the wound does at my shoulder. The *truth* is that I had used Legolas, my friend--I had used his need for me, his desire, to fill a hole in my own soul. The *truth* is that I had used the proximity of his body to replace the absence of Arwen's. It is a truth I cannot deny, a very ignoble truth that I realized soon after I released, as the pleasure ebbed slowly from my body and my mind, to be replaced by a growing sick feeling that I had done everyone in the equation a great and inescapable wrong.  
  
I felt Legolas release with a shudder even as I began to regain some sense, felt the warmth of his seed spread along my belly as he gasped my name. And what I wanted most at that moment was to start the evening again, to reverse all of what I had done, so that I could preserve a friendship I was now so certain I would lose.  
  
I rolled from him and lay supine on the forest floor, feeling sharp twigs poke into the exposed skin of my buttocks and lower back. I have to smile, now, at how I welcomed that pain, how it brought me to realize fully the situation into which I had put Legolas and myself. Now, as the horizon jumps and clouds with every throb of my wound, felt as strongly as a heartbeat pounding out its last pulse, I have to laugh at that. Brego puts his ears back; the horse must think me mad. Perhaps he is not too far off the mark, there.  
  
I remember how I stared up into the trees for a long while, occasionally catching a glimpse of stars through the dark branches as they blew in the wind. I felt, rather than saw, Legolas gently wipe at my stomach with a cloth, cleaning away the evidence of our union; I could not look at him, nor did I have the heart to stop him, then. Soon, he leaned into my field of vision, where I could not help but see his face, shining with a cool alabaster glow, which may have been an effect of the moonlight, or of the joy that radiated through the smile he gave me. My throat closed with the lump of emotion caught in it--how could I explain the truth to him? The truth of what I had done, at his expense? I looked away, into the woods.  
  
"Aragorn?" he questioned, and there was uncertainty in his voice, which I had put there with my lack of perception and my thoughtlessness. "Aragorn, are you...?"  
  
I could not answer. I felt exposed here, not only in the physical sense, but in my soul--exposed as a liar and a cheat. I have always struggled to do my best in all things, to step forth to the challenges placed before me, no matter how unworthy I am of them. But there, in the forests outside Lothlórien, I had not done my best. I had led Legolas and myself into a situation that could only crack the Fellowship further, could only drive us further apart.  
  
"Aragorn," he began again, "long have I wished for this moment."  
  
I squeezed my eyes closed, but I knew no amount of wishing on my part would end this evening. I knew that I would have to face him, that I would have to tell him the lie and risk losing his friendship forever.  
  
"Aragorn," he said in Sindarin, with a weighty honesty in his voice that made my heart ache with the falsehood it kept, "I love you."  
  
It was all he said. He did not expound on his feelings at length, but only delivered that simple statement in such a way that there could be no mistaking the depth of his feeling. To this day, it brings a tear to my eye to recall it, and to know that I could never return his affection in the same way he gave it.  
  
I drew in a deep and shuddering breath, and replied in kind, "And I love you, Legolas...as one loves a brother."  
  
There was a silence that followed, broken only by an owl's hooting in the night as it hunted. What could I have expected him to say to that, after all?   
  
He did answer, but it was many minutes later. "As a *brother*?" I could hear the anger in his voice now, the hurt and the sorrow. "Do the *brothers* of your kind dally so? Are these the actions of *brothers* among Men, Aragorn?"  
  
"They are not," I managed to choke out dryly, still turned from him.  
  
"*Look at me!*" He did not shout, but nonetheless it was a stern command he issued, rather than a request. I turned to him, wanting more than anything to explain why I had done what I had...but I couldn't even explain it satisfactorily to myself. He continued, "Why? Why did you allow this if...?"  
  
"I wanted to assuage your worry," I said, and that had been true--somewhat true. "It concerned me to see you so lost, Legolas. You have never been so in my company--not in all the years we have known each other." I could hear my voice rising, though I struggled to keep it low. "You needed the comfort, and I gave it! I gave you what I thought you needed, because you are my friend, as close to me as a brother! But I cannot love you as you wish, Legolas! I cannot!" I panted, my breath nearly gone. "I love Arwen, Legolas. She will sail West, as her father wishes, and my heart will sail with her. As you took comfort from what we had done, so did I, but...it was not you of which I thought, then."   
  
His face fell, and I knew I had struck him with my words as painfully as if I had slapped him, physically, across the face. "I am sorry," I added. And I was.  
  
I am. I still am. We assembled ourselves separately, readjusting our clothing, pulling the debris from our hair without speaking--nay, without even looking upon one another. We walked back to the camp in silence, and have since conducted only the business that is necessary to the survival of what is left of the Fellowship. To the others, Legolas seems no different. But though I lack the perceptions of an Elf, I can see a difference in him. I am no longer his confidant, though I have tried to carry on just as before. He is civil, even friendly, but he is as a brother to me no longer. I wonder, if I reach Helm's Deep before I expire, if that will change. I wonder if he will be able to forgive me.  
  
I am sorry, Legolas. I am.  
  
TO BE CONCLUDED  
  
A/N: Thanks to Sue, Aratlithiel, and Exrated for your continued reviews. And an apology to VaniaHepskins: the elf fares better in some of our other stories, I promise! 


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